Long hard one, Going right in, Just getting crushed, Becoming squishy squashy, When finally out. Slurpy liquid is all that is left, After it has come right out. Two little tiny women, One with a pony tail, One without, Drinking it in with all gusto, Out of tall glasses. Oh sweet sugar cane juice, How I long for one right away!
ps:- This had its humble beginnings in the far wide jungle right here
A sedentary Monday morning that started with it’s usual share of strong morning coffee and a reluctant hit to the office. Yours truly even went as far as turn around, cast an unhappy look at Mommy dear, clutched her tummy, tried to get her tummy to make weird noises so she could be let off to stay at home, enjoy an extended weekend, but no Mommy dear was so used to Dotty’s tricks that she just continued waving standing at the door lest dotty just escape inwards. Ah! So it is that a hapless soul sat before the comp and out of sheer boredom started wading through blogs, much like ducks wade in the waters, only they are very happy doing that and she did it in a slightly melancholic state. Oh! No! She was not suffering from Incurable Hypertension Sleep Disorder Chronic Depression Syndrome. In fact quite the contrary but Monday mornings had an unusually weird effect on her. She felt like standing before the Mirror and making an ugly face at the reflection, hoping against hope hopen that that would quicken the week days into the much loved week end. Anyways that was not to be and she continued her blogosearch. Then it was that she hit upon Gif’s blog and that inspired her to play around with obscure characters and words, type, comma, backspace, myriad words making their way into her blog. Ms Gif had talked about how Imperfection is far more alluring than is the oft searched for perfection and there is a lot of truth in what she said. I was reading this book called “The Unbearable lightness of Being” by “Milan Kundera” and there is a certain French Professor (he is not a professor of the French language but more a professor who happens to be French) who falls in love with a painter. Oh yaa, the French do have a weakness for the arty types! He thinks she is perfection personified, that the relationship is par excellence and so he lives in constant fear of losing her. He keeps thinking day in and day out that this is IT, this is the time when she shall declare that she is no longer in love with him. So there is always an unsettling feeling in him, as to when these idyllic days are going to end and sure enough they do but when it does he is actually relieved. When he falls down from that utopic state and actually hits terra firma, he is happy, blissful, at peace with himself. Now he need not fear anything! Such is the effect that perfection can have on one. When u think that what you have is perfect, something too good to be true then you live in constant fear of losing it. When you do live in constant fear of losing something, the unconscious reflects these thought waves and sure enough they would be treated back with just what the heart and soul were hoping would not happen. So you lose the much coveted object, but just like our French professor you would be relieved and light. Also when imperfections persist, one has the tendency to break out of them and head towards attaining perfection, however much elusive that goal may be. So there is a constant drive and need at improving oneself and whether or not you attain that goal of seeking perfection you have done yourself a world of good in the journey to the destination. When you enjoy the ride, love the sights that you take in while trying to reach the end, then the destination ceases to be of any importance.
Tiny feet marching towards the swings, Little hands holding the wooden slab, Birds sitting atop trees fluttering wings, Old men walking by enjoying gab.
Pleated skirt, pink top, flying hair, Plain shirt, beige drawers, pushing harder, Legs high up in the air, Going higher and higher and higher.
She suddenly one with the clouds, Soon almost touching terra firma, Singing songs celebrating life, aloud, Willing the music to just go on, ooh la la.
He shoved the wooden block hard, She soared upwards leaving the city below in a flood, Steel chain unhinging from a U-hook, coming down THUD, Pleated skirt, pink top, wild hair all lying in a mangle of blood.
He mooted to the ground too moved to speak, There really were no more tears left to cry, No more mates left to tweak, And he wished that he like his mate could just die.
A bare yellow body with black polka dots stumped urs truly with a question. She stared long and hard waving a brown bag, waiting to see if I had anything phenomenal to offer. A quick “Umm..Actually I am tied up with some work. I will get back to you soon enough” was all I could come up with. Sure enough I was tied up with so much work, corrosive fumes effusing out of metal parts. Metal clamping metal barely managing to stay on the ground and blowing out lots of big, black ugly smoke. I was making my way towards the pale, blue bike standing silently smiling the smile of a satisfied criminal. A trip down memory lane and I remembered idyllic walks through green meadows where pale yellow flowers bloomed. I still loved the reflection staring back at me from that clear stream. I had traded all of that for this black smoke looming in front of me? And what about those extra pounds around the waist? Now the blue bike did not seem so cunning. I could still have the last laugh! I trundled him alongside me, me the master and he obeying me. A dark, gloomy shed was going to be his haven and he deserved it. So I woke up the next morning a really refreshed, a rejuvenated soul and took a walk to the land of bosses. A chirpy good morning left my lips. “So early?” asked he. “I just walked in” said I. “Oh. Why is the bike sick” he asked. “Umm..sort of. For life! He has been institutionalized.” said I. “Oh! Weight reduction?” he questioned in turn. A slow sarcastic smile left my lips.
He blew smoke as he went singing all the way, She tried telling him how it was all wrong, He paid no heed to her words and her wise say, And so look where his deeds left him, humming a sad song.
A gloomy place bustling with lots of white and some green A device over his nose, wires all over, She stood leaning and watching from behind the glass, far from serene As he struggled to breathe his last, her beloved lover!
I have done a really wee bit and now it is for them to decide if I can do more. Maybe Griz and Gif will have a lot to say about this!
